


first they kiss then they bite soft

by cyanciela



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, M/M, Mutual Pining, attention as a love language, friends to idiots to lovers, they’re in love and i’m making that your problem (the remix)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29521650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanciela/pseuds/cyanciela
Summary: Kiyoomi might do it anyway, because rejection must feel better than the soft death ofwant.He wonders if Atsumu wants, the way he does.—Attention is the beginning of devotion
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 84





	first they kiss then they bite soft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ayushi_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayushi_writes/gifts).



> skts kissy kissy and by my own hand... tragique..

Atsumu understands people in ways Kiyoomi doesn’t. “Oops! Sorry, Omi-kun isn’t a fan of crowds~” he says, and just like magic, they listen. 

His smile is a dirty trick. A sleight of hand. He shows teeth and you’re so distracted with how right it looks—made to have eyes on him, uncomplicated in the way he makes you complicit in all that he is: his hair, and his hands, the skin on the inside of his wrist. What Kyoomi would give to kiss him there once, selfishly, savor his reaction and hide it in between the crook of his fingers.

Kiyoomi’s no good at it. He’s too straightforward to understand the game, because if it’s not volleyball, he’s lost before he’s got a chance to try. He’s fallen victim the same as any other, and most irritating of all is how he’s hardly as angry about it as he ought to be. 

“I don’t need you corraling your fans away from me. They would have left me alone on their own,” Kiyoomi says, because that’s what he wants to say. He wants to be angry about the fact that he’s never had to ask them himself because Atsumu _thinks_ about those sorts of things. The way he operates is worse than any genuinely annoying jab or trying attempt at humor. Yes, in that dangerous, nebulous place of beyond, he is first and foremost kind. Atsumu is not the worst person Kiyoomi knows, and it is ruining his life. Or at the very least, his sense of self.

Atsumu hardly bothers with a sideway glance, busy signing a fox plushie of some sort. “Ya think I was doin’ that fer yer benefit omi-omi? Hah, that’s sweet but I want their attention fer myself. I certainly deserve it more than a prickly guy like you.”

It makes the fans laugh, and if Kiyoomi weren’t so painfully aware of what was happening he might too. Atsumu finally lifts his head from where he’s basking in all of that hard-fought attention, and Kiyoomi knows, oh he knows. Atsumu is a kind-hearted jerk who lies to save face.

Kiyoomi reluctantly tears his attention away from Atsumu, and tries his honest best not to frown for the few who attempt a (well distanced) selfie. In between that, and pretending to scroll his phone, it's not torturous being in a room full of people as he favors Atsumu from his lineup of teammates. He’s hardly the only one.

Kiyoomi wonders what it's like, wonders if Atsumu ever does get tired of having to smile, but he guesses that’s where the difference between them lies—right there, when he bites down on his own, stubborn even in private because it’s a secret he needs to keep from even himself. Maybe most especially himself.

— 

Learning to live with Atsumu is an ordeal. It’s a process that requires patience and virtue, and Kiyoomi knows he’s high and dry on both of those.

It’s quiet when he gets home, (it becomes home alarmingly quick, despite spending most of his time at practice, or away games, or working out. Somehow he not only doesn’t mind, but _likes_ the way there’s a draft and one of the lightbulbs buzz no matter how many times they change it out), quieter as he takes a shower and thinks about what he and Atsumu might have for dinner. The shuffling sound of his footfall on the wood is unbearably loud.

Kiyoomi imagines at one time, maybe right after they had finished moving in, he wouldn’t have thought about it. Take out he’d decide without pause, and then order it, eat it, and go to bed. Only now he knows what it’s like to cook with Atsumu after games, and while it is a spectacular—seriously so, fucking messy—mess, he knows that Osamu is not the only twin who knows how to cook.

 _“‘s a piece of cake Omi. I just got extra lucky with a’lotta practice.”_ Kiyoomi threw something at him after that because he’d been smiling and it was irritating him that Atsumu was the reason.

So he doesn’t dial for take out. He’s not pouting either, though. He enjoys being alone and he enjoys the quiet. He enjoys being alone in the quiet, especially since it’s so rare he might be able to have it these days.

Tricky Atsumu with his tricky tricks, putting Kiyoomi under his influence of boyish charm without the slightest consideration for his well-being. 

Kiyoomi sits at the kitchen table, wobbly and broken after a game of beer-pong gone wrong and opens twitter. He doesn’t stop and consider for even a moment about what he might be _doing_ on twitter, because that would mean thinking about it, and that he will not. He blows past the flood of ignored notifications, a few from tonight’s post-game photo op, and opens a particular page.

🔁 older, hotter miya _retweeted_

 **i hate it here <3** @muzzbeez

Miya Atsumu was so sweet! Can’t believe I got to meet him!!! Thanks for retaking the picture! @miyaONE [Two Attached Images]

It’s the first retweet on Atsumu’s page, brand new.

He looks over the couple of photos attached to the tweet, Atsumu donning the same charming smile that Kiyoomi had been watching and wondering about all night. He scrolls down and finds the original “out takes” along with a reply from Atsumu himself.

_replying to_ @muzzbeez @miyaMSBY

 **older, hotter miya** @miyaMSBY

I don’t like looking bad. Wasn’t for your benefit.

Kiyoomi sets his phone down and grinds his teeth. He gives one forlorn look at the door, as if the force of will alone will materialize what he wants (who), before picking it back up. He has not and will never understand Atsumu’s need to appear selfish, it so obviously contradicts who he is, really, at the core of things. It’s negated with every action he takes. Athletes should know better than to waste energy on pointless manyevours.

_replying to_ @muzzbeez @miyaMSBY

 **Sakusa Kiyoomi** @omiomi_MSBY

You never look good. When are you coming home.

He sets his phone down once he realizes what he’s done. Oh, people can see that, and that’s made abundantly clear with the way his phone struggles to load the replies he begins receiving—not that he bothers trying to salvage any meaning from the mess of key smashes and exclamation marks and a varying confusing mixture of emojis. People like obsessing over his personal life, and curiously, his twitter handle, and he's almost used to it. He remembers Komori telling him that his apathy towards things only spurred people into wanting more, that it wouldn’t kill him to try and act like he cared, even a little. 

He finds the thought of treating people like a puzzle, or trying to break through to them like a child with a packaged new toy, exhausting. He has no inclination to act any sort of way he isn’t already naturally disposed to, which only leads to him to utter despair when what he’s disposed to is, well, embarrassing. Hence, the ordeal.

He refreshes his tweet. It seems to have gotten a lot of likes already, and because it was a direct reply to Atsumu’s tweet, he imagines it’s been seen. Embarrassing. He should have texted him, or better yet flung his phone out of the window and ordered take out and gone to bed.

His phone chimes not a minute later, and when he tilts his frowning face towards the screen sees it lit up by a text from Atsumu—chock full of typos, but with promises of being home in half an hour. The guilt of knowing he’s the reason why Atsumu is going to have to apologize to his dedicated legion of fans feels a lot closer to satisfaction than he remembers. 

*

“Omi-kun did ya miss me? Sure seems like it.”

The fact that Atsumu is milking this rather demeaning moment of Kiyoomi’s life choices is predictable. It is few and far between the moments anyone who knows Atsumu to half a degree be surprised by his behavior. He’s honest that way. A bastard, but a transparent one at that, and so Kiyoomi respects the principle of the thing. He’s not sure he’s comfortable with where that leaves himself, though.

“I wanted you to come clean up the absolute mess you made.” He is a terrible liar, but that won’t stop him from trying.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure,” Atsumu sings, not bothering to tone down the smug righteousness for even a second. “The living room’s spotless though, ya know I have a working set of eyeballs right?”

Kiyoomi turns his back to Atsumu rather pointedly, this it seems, spurs him on further. He can feel Atsumu’s happy little stare boring into the back of his head as he stares down at the plate he’s pretending to prepare, it’s as obvious as the sun. Everything—must _everything_ about him be so salient? Atsumu leans a hip on the counter, just in Kiyoomi’s peripheral, and yet it’s all he’s able to focus on. Atsumu does that to him a lot, it seems.

Kiyoomi flicks his eyes towards him for a moment and regrets it just as quickly. His happiness is a palpable, striking thing, and it takes up more than the air, more than the room they stand in. It’s everything filed down to one point and Kiyoomi’s heart can hardly stand it.

“That's because I…” Kiyoomi pauses for a moment, almost breathless on his feelings alone. Atsumu seems happy to wait with arms crossed, hair tousled too effortlessly to actually be effortless. He wonders how it feels, how it might yield for his hands instead of Atsumu’s own. “That's because I couldn't stand to look at it any longer, and I cleaned it up myself. Out of irritation. You're welcome.”

Atsumu waits until Kiyoomi hands him his plate before responding. “We both know that if that were even half true ya would’a kicked me out ages ago. Yer a God-awful liar, by the way. Just admit you wanted me home. That you miiissed this pretty face an’ all it has to offer.”

Kiyoomi has heard a lot of nonsense from Atsumu over the years they've known each other, even more over the year they’ve lived together. From more rudimentary and childish jabs that never succeeded in doing anything other than making Kiyoomi poke back twice as hard, to something softer around the edges, a more sincere sort of friendship that could only ever be gained through the courtesy of time. Sure, hearing Atsumu make such audacious remarks could be annoying, on a surface-level sort of way, but nothing has gotten under his skin quite like hearing it while it _maybe…_ held some truth.

It would be easy to throw Atsumu a scathing look right now, it certainly wouldn’t be insincere, but that's just the problem. Their early days of goading taunts, mean looks and sharper words were not entirely insincere either. They've always been honest with each other, even if in a round-about way. Atsumu isn't one to do things he doesn't truly mean, and neither is Kiyoomi. He’s already given himself away.

“Don’t know, Miya.” Kiyoomi stirs at what sits on his plate with pointed attention, but it doesn't stop him from noticing Atsumu pause across from him. Across from him because he had asked Atsumu be home, and home he was. He looks up to stare Atsumu down, eyes sharp. He hates half-assing things. “And if I did?”

Atsumu, who had been half-way to mouthing another clump of rice, chokes on the food he’s swallowing. “Huh-well, that uh, well—I would say I’m not surprised. Not even a little, don't kid ya’self Omi, I’m irresistible.”

Kiyoomi takes pause, giving his poor, long suffering roommate a moment to recover, but he’s unsure if it’s actually an act of kindness or not. Atsumu seems to have completely frozen up in place. Sighing, he leans in from his seat and raises his arm, looking at the corner of Atsumu’s mouth. He doesn’t let his eyes wander.

Atsumu wears a slightly puzzled look now, embarrassment momentarily forgotten. “Oh. I got somethin’ on my face don’ I?” His cheeks round with food, food Kiyoomi made. Terribly, this causes Kiyoomi a joy of some sort, and because they’re eating and he has no mask, has to take extreme caution in not letting it show.

Kiyoomi hums, wiping at Atsumu’s face with his napkin. He wonders, in the midst of doing this, what his skin feels like. His momentum tapers off as he reaches the edge of Atsumu’s mouth, and too scared to pull away, or make any other movement, wonders how his skin might warm his own. He wonders if Atsumu would yell and complain about how cold Kiyoomi is in comparison, if he might shiver or scowl or laugh—when he might turn away with that bright smile that’s always there, and say “It’s not like that”. Kiyoomi might do it anyway, because rejection must feel better than the soft death of _want._ He wonders if Atsumu wants, the way he does. If he sometimes lies awake in the cold silence of his bed and wishes someone… maybe Kiyoomi, be there with him.

“Omi?” This seems to seize Kiyoomi from whatever hold has taken him, and he doesn’t fight the frown that falls over his features as he backs away, back in his own space. 

“Sorry.” He shoves a piece of food in his mouth to keep himself from saying something devastating, or worse, doing something like trace the skin of Atsumu’s cheek. He wants to want that to be a horrible thought. He only feels numb. “You’re a real jerk, you know that?”

Atsumu is quiet, concern overriding his need to get that last, scathing word in. “What’re you on about now?”

Kiyoomi nearly winces at how soft he sounds, like he’s taking caution on a minefield, like handing a child. He wants to crawl under his covers and not ever come out. “Your fans. I saw that tweet. You’re not that much of an asshole, but pretending to be makes you a jerk.”

Atsumu hums, back into motion and eating again, “Oh that. I don’t know why you of all people would defend my honor. You know me.”

Too well, and that is a problem. “Yeah I do.”

They don’t talk much after that.

*

Atsumu begins taking caution to leave as soon as Kiyoomi does. Call it curiosity, say he’s doing it to be kind—if his theory, his _impossible_ theory is correct— but you’d be wrong any way it goes. Atsumu is selfish, afterall.

“You don’t have to follow me around,” Kiyoomi snaps at him, drawn tight and more irritated than Atsumu remembers him being for, well, a while.

He drapes himself around Kiyoomi and pouts. “No need ta snap at me, Omi. I know ya don’t mind my company _that_ much.”

Kiyoomi sort of slows down at his words, some of the tension melting from his frame, “That— whatever. It’s pointless trying to have a conversation that makes sense with you.” He shoves something into the bottom of his duffle. Atsumu only hums as he hitches his own higher on his free arm.

“Why’re ya in such a hurry? Want ta be alone with me that bad—oww Omi!”

“You’re the one who’s following me. Go back. Your fans are going to be sad you’re not there to sign shit and look pretty.”

Atsumu steps back and looks. Kiyoomi’s facing away, shoulders hitched and movements jerky. Atsumu can just barely see the tips of his ears peeking from his dark hair, still damp from a shower, and Atsumu _knows_ Kiyoomi wants to sound mean, but all Atsumu sees is careful consideration. Consideration for their fans, consideration for Atsumu himself—not afraid, but conscious of never overstepping. If he asked—if he _would_ ask for an inch, Atsumu would surely give him a mile

“So you think I look pretty?” Atsumu sings, because he doesn’t want to go there if he’s not been invited, doesn’t know what he'd do if the answer was a solid no. An unforgiving rejection.

“Shut up, Miya.” 

—

Atsumu keeps an eye on him. 

Sometimes, when he finally manages to pry his fingers under Kiyoomi’s un-giving glares and tilt them into smiles, when he really makes him laugh for the first time of the day, and Kiyoomi looks at him, and only him, he pretends things are the way he wants them to be. Lately, however, he’s been scared to look too close. 

Kiyoomi is not loud, not always forthright, and that makes him dangerous, in a way. He’s not so easy to gauge at first glance, but when you learn the tells it’s hard to miss them. Quiet is not synonymous with subtle. 

“Omi-omi, careful with all that glarin’ yer doin’ over there, or you’ll get wrinkles fer sure,” Atsumu says, pointedly not looking at him.

Looking right at the sun is bad for his eyes, looking straight at Omi is bad for his heart. Kiyoomi’s quiet, but he’s not subtle. Atsumu has pissed him off, and he’s not sure why, or how, but he’s at least twenty-seven percent sure that this is true.

He keeps his attention on his phone, scrolling listlessly, feeling increasingly distressed. They mess with each other, unavoidably get mad at eachother, but Atsumu isn't sure he remembers feeling nervous about it.

“So you are paying attention to me,” Kiyoomi mutters, and it’s quiet enough that Atsumu is almost sure he’s misheard. Or that Kiyoomi has decided to start fucking with him.

Atsumu dares a look up and sees Kiyoomi curled up on his designated side of the couch. Atsumu never sits there, but he imagines sitting closer, sometimes. Maybe pressing into his side. Attention, such a fickle thing.

“What?” He says, when it’s clear that Kiyoomi has finished speaking.

He’s not expecting the look of surprise that flitters over his face: quiet, not subtle. “Omi?”

“Shut up.” Kiyoomi stands up from his spot, blanket falling from his lap and pooling at his feet on the ground. Atsumu opens his mouth to soundless words.

“Uh—hang on,” Atsumu manages, before standing himself. He runs (not too loudly, because the neighbors have already complained about it), to his room. When he returns, Kiyoomi is sitting back down, blanket still forgotten on the floor, staring off into space like something has offended him.

Atsumu bends to pick the blanket up, which surprises Kiyoomi—who’s still frowning off into the middle distance—enough to startle. “You scared me,” he mutters. They’re close enough that Atsumu can smell his shower gel. And his toothpaste. It’s harder to not pay attention.

A beat passes, the two of them staring at each other before Atsumu remembers to mumble an apology and set back to doing what he had intended, placing the blanket back on Kiyoomi’s lap. Kiyoomi's gaze flickers from the blanket to his face, expression steeped in suspicion.

“Are you cold?” Atsumu asks, finally bringing attention to what he had gone to retrieve. They’re a pair of socks, thick and fuzzy and entirely black save for the two little triangles that pop out and serve as the ears. He feels a bit ridiculous presenting them to Kiyoomi, like… like, some kind of love-sick puppy.

He can feel the heat climbing the back of his neck and into the ears before Kiyoomi makes a move. “What is that?” He asks, but he’s already grabbing for them and Atsumu relaxes minimally.

“They’re fer you. You were cold, and uh—“ _You implied I wasn’t paying attention to you?_ Which is the second most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard—the first being that Osamu is the better brother, _Atsumu_ is the best brother on earth—because all he does, day in and out, and maybe when he’s sleeping too, is pay attention to Kiyoomi.

“Thank you,” Kiyoomi mumbles, and puts them on right there. He looks up at Atsumu, who is still awkwardly sort-of standing over him, and Kiyoomi looks so quietly pleased and maybe even—fond, that Atsumu has to bring a hand up to cover the bottom half of his face to prevent his heart from spilling right out of his stupid mouth.

“Yup. It’s no problem. Anyway,” he stutters, and marches himself right back to where he’d been situated before he developed a heart condition.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, suddenly. Atsumu jerks his head up from where he was going to pretend to be doing else. “You—you should sit over here. To watch something.”

Atsumu picks his heart up from the ground (because he doesn’t manage to cover his face in time, and his heart has never been one to stay in place around Kiyoomi) and does as he’s asked. He moves from his singular chair to the couch and sits on the other end, tucking his legs up. He’s not sure he’s ever been this quiet for so long.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu pouts at the return of his surname, but he sounds more himself this time around, less stilted and more annoyed. Atsumu looks away when he realizes he finds that cute. “Stop being weird.”

Atsumu coughs around his laugh, but the way Kiyoomi’s mouth tugs up ever-slightly at his miserable cover-up is worth it and some.

“Yeah. Sorry. What are we watchin’?”

*

Kiyoomi is sure he’s in the middle of some sort of drawn-out rejection before he realizes something. Atsumu doesn’t know.

He gives him socks. They’re brand-new, and he knows right away they’ve been washed already, because they smell of detergent that is distinctly Atsumu’s own.

He smiles and Kiyoomi forgets how to speak—and Atsumu smiles a lot. The only thing worse than fawning over someone was agonizing over why they weren’t paying you enough attention, and then going on to say so. Out loud, where one may even hear you.

Worse than that still? The rush of warmth, of content, of absolutely appalling emotion that over-takes Kiyoomi, almost exclusively in the context of Atsumu. 

“Yeah. Sorry. What are we watchin’?” he asks, and Kiyoomi envies how easily Atsumu can switch back to calm and collected without issue. Which is hypocritical of him, after telling him to stop being weird in the first place, but well, Atsumu makes him stupid that way.

They pick a movie, something they’ve already watched, and Kiyoomi thinks Atsumu is fairly adamant that they choose it specifically, because “Ya weren’t payin’ enough attention the first time.”

Kiyoomi hadn’t been paying attention, and it’s for the same reason he finds himself having a hard time focusing now. Focusing on the right thing.

“Omi,” he whines at some point, not even a quarter in, and Kiyoomi actually feels bad that he’s so obviously not into it. Maybe he should feel bad for what he’s favoring in its stead.

Kiyoomi twists around to face Atsumu’s pouting face, cast in the blue lighting of their flatscreen. He bites the inside of his cheek, unsure of what he might say. “Sorry. Distracted.”

“Distracted by _what_?” Atsumu asks, rolling his eyes upwards, “You haven’t pulled yer phone out. I was checkin’” 

“You,” Kiyoomi says, and then blacks out for a moment. No really, he thinks his vision blacks out entirely for a rough couple of seconds, or maybe it’s his brain trying to protect him from the memory of what Atsumu’s initial reaction is, but he does not mean to say that.

Kiyoomi’s sure he’s never seen this look before. Surprised but apprehensive at once, sure of what he’s heard and concluding—what Kiyoomi thinks—is far from the truth.

“Was I fidgitin’?” Atsumu asks, but his voice rings a bit too hollow, like his mind has left him behind. Kiyoomi feels a scowl twisting his features when he realizes that is probably the case.

“No. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Atsumu, who’s now crossing his arms like some kind of scolded child, huffs a breath in response. “If I got on yer nerves it’s fine. I don’t care.”

Kiyoomi wants to pull his hair out. How is he so spectacularly dense? “I care. And that’s not what I meant,” he repeats, digging in nails into the cushions on either side of him “You’re just—hard to ignore. I’m not good at—I like spending time with you.” He grits, exceptionally awkward. “I like the socks you gave me. I like sitting here with you.” _So much that it’s hard for me not to stare at you._ _When we’re supposed to be professional athletes at signings, or sitting at home alone. You irritating jerk._

“Huh?” Atsumu says, arms falling away as he stares in open disbelief at what may be the nicest words Kiyoomi’s ever said to him. “You—“

Kiyoomi jerks his head away, facing the TV while trying desperately to think of some way out of this. “Don’t think stupid things.”

“Omiii~” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi accepts that he’s doomed to saying and doing just about anything if it makes Atsumu happy. “Ya really love me that much?”

There’s no way Atsumu is getting emotional over this, but sure as he’s ever been of anything else, when Kiyoomi turns to glare at him (which effects may be diminished by his glowing red face) Atsumu’s face is split with a smile, and—is he tearing up?

“Stop. Stop it!” Kiyoomi nearly shouts, teleporting from his side of the couch towards Atsumu’s in a second. “Don’t be so dramatic, it’s not a big deal.” He hisses out, even as the larger part of him is just as happy. Ugh.

“Sorry,” Atsumu says, but he’s still grinning like he’s actually won something. Kiyoomi wishes he could look away.

“You’re such a handful,” he says, and brings his hand up to push some of Atsumu’s stray hairs away, flatter now in the later part of the day when he’s not as concerned with meticulously maintaining it.

“Ya and you like it,” Atsumu responds, and promptly bursts into a fit of laughter about it. Kiyoomi’s fingers are still in his hair, and he hardly registers the way he’s drug his hand down, the back of his fingers gliding over the smooth skin of Atsumu’s temple, down farther to the flushed skin of his cheek. Oh. 

He has a real problem, doesn’t he.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kiyoomi says, dragging himself away with what little sense remains in his body. Atsumu is happy though, and Kiyoomi doesn’t feel like retreating. He’s just glad he isn't called out on the fact, even while it’s so unlike him to linger. 

When he goes to bed, he tries very hard not to wonder if Atsumu is thinking of him too.

  
  


—

  
  


“Hey Omi-kun?” 

Kiyoomi sniffs at his reflection in the mirror. What does he want for breakfast? It’s not his turn to cook anyway, so he could take some extra time getting ready.

“Omi-kun. Stop ignorin’ me!”

Atsumu, for some reason, has decided that today he wants to loiter around the bathroom far longer than he ever does. He wakes up early enough that the two of them hardly cross paths at this stage in their routines. Kiyoomi enjoys the fact they don’t, for a multitude of reasons. 

He’s fearless though, and stubborn even in the face of Kiyoomi’s poisonous morning temper. He crowds 

further into the bathroom and leans against the back wall, just behind him, arms crossed and expectant. Kiyoomi can’t _not_ see the way he’s underdressed for the temperature of their apartment, shoulders broad and sweatpants… doing what sweatpants do. Distract him. He puts on his moisturizer a bit aggressively and tells himself to behave. It’s nothing he’s unfamiliar with.

“Get out.”

He finishes moisturizing, and to his great annoyance, is still faced with Atsumu. His mistake is caving and _looking_ , actually making eye contact, even if through the mirror. Atsumu looks so well-pleased Kiyoomi could hit him. He knows why, and that isn’t helping his self control not to.

“I thought ya liked havin’ me ‘round?” Atsumu responds, after the silence stretches on long enough to border on awkward. He doesn’t even sound smug though, despite his demeanor, only quietly and entirely pleased.

“I lied,” Kiyoomi says back evenly, and stares down at the sink. Another stretch of silence, and it’s as he’s about to turn around and kick Atsumu out for real, he misses the blur of movement from behind him.

He jumps when he feels the ghosting sensation of Atsumu crowding in behind him, there and gone in a flash, and as he’s questioning if it happened at all, feels a solid hand rest on the dip of his waist. He’s still looking down at the sink, his knuckles going white with the force they’re gripping at it’s ledge. His face feels beyond red, which is probably the reason he hasn’t made a move yet, but he’s also curiously pissed off enough to find out what the hell Atsumu thinks he’s doing. It’s not without catching a glimpse of his own expression, eyes wide and pathetically startled. Atsumu has his unoccupied arm in the air, reaching for the cabinet door that doubles as their mirror, with not so much as a glance in Kiyoomi’s direction. 

“Forgot somethin’” And as quickly as he’d encroached, is gone again. “I’m makin’ pancakes, by the way. See ya.”

Kiyoomi wonders if Atsumu had even grabbed something out of the cabinet, because he certainly doesn’t remember.

—

Breakfast is casual. As casual as a meal in Kiyoomi’s place of residence ever is. It’s neat and structured and he appreciates the fact Atsumu has never seemed fazed by it, even when he’d been learning what that meant.

He doesn’t appreciate much else, especially not today.

“Yer not eatin’” Atsumu says, and even if he does so around a mouthful of food, he minds enough to cover his mouth with a napkin.

“Maybe I don’t want your food.” Kiyoomi is a bit grouchy. He’s not sure just what is happening, and Atsumu’s blasé attitude about it all is ticking him off.

“Ya need ta eat,” he responds a bit more sternly, and Kiyoomi sighs but does as he’s told. There’s another break in conversation as he takes a bite. It’s delicious and that’s irritating too. 

“You remind me of a big cat, ya know that? Like kind’a pretty, n’ not safe to be around.”

Kiyoomi is taken a bit off guard by this, grateful he’s in the middle of chewing so he can think of something to say. He thinks of the socks. He thinks of a bright smile. He thinks of a body pressing in way too casually for sincerity.

“Chew you up and spit you out, kind of dangerous,” Kiyoomi wipes over the front of his teeth with his tongue, looking up for a precarious second before going back to his food, “I bet you’d like that.”

“Wh-” Atsumu starts, and then drops it. Kiyoomi would probably tell him exactly what he doesn't want to hear. He really shouldn't tap the glass if he's afraid of the teeth. 

— 

Kiyoomi isn’t _good_ the way Atsumu is. Not at the same things, anyway, but whatever game they’re playing he really wants to win. He has already conceded the fact that he probably won’t, but that isn’t going to stop him from trying.

“Omi-kun. What are you doing?” Atsumu asks, slow, and strained enough that his voice trembles. Kiyoomi digs his chin into the top of his shoulder a little bit harder, just to listen to Atsumu yelp.

“I wanted to see what you were doing,” Kiyoomi says calmly, even as he’s in an unfortunately familiar position. Sort of. This morning, Atsumu had been the one draping his long muscled body all over him, but it will do.

He’s also not draping himself over Atsumu, but he is standing directly behind him, his chin on Atsumu’s shoulder, his chest to Atsumu’s back. He hasn’t dared grab for his waist though, because as much as he wants to, he needs to maintain some level of cool. Also, he isn’t insane, like some people in this house.

“Okay,” Atsumu gets out, and goes right back to folding laundry. Kiyoomi doesn’t move away, and he almost feels awkward enough to stop, but he’s still sort of pissed off and Atsumu is toying with him, now. So he won’t.

“Are ya just—gonna stay there,” Atsumu asks, a couple of tense minutes later. Kiyoomi’s starting to relax here, even if he has to bend slightly to accommodate for Atsumu’s height. He smells like shower gel, and he’s warm. He could get used to this.

“Do you want me to move?” Kiyoomi asks. He would, if Atsumu asked, but he’s fairly certain he won’t.

“No.”

“Great,” Kiyoomi says, and maybe because he is insane, wraps his arms around Atsumu’s waist. Ah, he could fall asleep here, standing up. He’s so…

“Omi,” Atsumu breathes, all high-pitched and whine-y, and Kiyoomi shuts his eyes as he fights back a laugh. Atsumu can probably tell by the way he shakes them both trying to stop it. “Yer—so not fair.”

Kiyoomi hums because he isn’t, but if he was, he’d be two steps behind. Tilting his head, he leans a bit more into him.

“Not sorry,” he replies. Atsumu responds by bringing a hand up to cover Kiyoomi’s forearms, overlapping from where they have him wrapped up.

It feels dangerously close to a genuine show of affection than anything else, and Kiyoomi opens his eyes when he realizes it _is_. He’s been tricked, somehow.

“Atsumu, what are you doing?”

“Huh?! Wh-What are you doing?” He snaps back, and Kiyoomi nearly trips when he’s forcibly disentangled so that Atsumu can turn around and face him head on.

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at him. “You started it.”

“I did _not_. This is yer fault for that tweet ya sent me.”

Oh right. “That wasn’t my fault, either,” Kiyoomi argues. “You should have—“ He stops when he realizes where that’s headed. Atsumu doesn’t owe him anything.

“Should have what, Omi? Been at home with ya? All you gotta do is ask.” Atsumu sounds sort-of put off, which is fair, but he isn’t necessarily right either.

“Not really.” Kiyoomi sighs, wrapping his arms around himself now, looking off to the other side of the room in case he decides to make a run for it and hide, because this was a lot harder than he’d been planning on.

Atsumu is also looking at him with narrowed eyes, as if to say _try it_ , but what was he gonna do? Chase him?

Kiyoomi is daring enough to find out, as it is, and he takes off across the length of Atsumu’s bedroom and down the hall. He hears Atsumu’s sharp _Hey_! and then pounding footsteps behind him. This is ridiculous, they’re ridiculous, but he’s also starting to laugh and he’s sure Atsumu is not far behind.

Not far behind in distance either, because just as he’s rounding to corner for the living room he’s tackled to the ground.

“Ow,” he hisses, but Atsumu doesn’t let up, going so far as to grab one of his wrists to stop another escape attempt. This causes Kiyoomi a great deal of annoyance and he kicks at him to make sure he knows it.

“No more running. We are going to talk about this now because I don’t think ‘m gonna make it ta tomorrow.”

Kiyoomi huffs, twisting his wrist a bit in Atsumu’s grip. He doesn’t let up, and Kiyoomi is going to have to reflect on his feelings about all of this later but now _isn't the time._ “Yeah whatever.”

“What did you mean earlier, ‘not really’?” He asks, and Kiyoomi realizes very quickly that he’s being serious.

“What does it sound like,” he says, swallowing thickly. He wishes they weren’t doing this on the ground. “It’s not like I could just—I don’t own you.” He cringes at how that sounds. “N-not that I want to.”

Atsumu stares down at him from where he’s sitting beside his still-sprawled body. His expression is closed off, calculating almost. Kiyoomi turns to stare straight up at their ceiling instead, because that’s doing something to him.

“Stand up,” Atsumu says suddenly, letting him go and moving to stand by the couch. Kiyoomi stupidly wonders if it would be a bad idea to try and run again. “I’m not gonna make you talk to me.”

He understands what he’s really saying here. _I won't make you. But I’m not waiting forever, either._

Kiyoomi stands and makes his way over to his spot on the couch. His blanket, a gift from Bokuto and Akaashi the year before, is folded neatly and waiting for him if he needs it. They sit.

“Ya really are a prickly guy,” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi bristles, sending him a look over his shoulder, but he’s only met with a soft smile. “I was scared I was readin’ into things.”

“You’re not.” As much as Kiyoomi would prefer to continue harboring everything he has until the day he dies, he owes Atsumu some truth. “I do... like having you around.”

One of Atsumu’s hands is edging into Kiyoomi’s vision, where he hadn’t even realized he had been looking down at his lap. “Well I knew that.” It works in getting Kiyoomi to smile, even if he still thinks he’s going to keel over from emotional strain any minute now. “I love having ya around, too.”

His hand finally makes it way over Kiyoomi’s, and Kiyoomi looks up in time to see the red spreading from Atsumu’s face down to his neck. “I’m obsessed with ya. Yer my favorite.”

Kiyoomi snorts, wobbly smile growing, “You’re so embarrassing.”

“I’m not done yet. I almost lost my mind when ya tweeted that. I thought someone had ya held hostage or somethin’.” Atsumu’s rubbing his thumb over the top over Kiyoomi’s hand, and he think he might black out again, this time from the feeling alone.

“I thought I was being obvious,” Kiyoomi grits, resisting urge upon urge to finally reach out and touch. “I stare enough.”

Atsumu barks out a startled laugh, “No way. Guess I’m better at hidin’ my own starin’ than I thought.”

Kiyoomi pushes Atsumu’s hand away, leaning in to press the sides of their bodies together. “You’re insufferable.”

“Wow, don't flatter me too much,” Atsumu drawls, but he’s grabbing for Kiyoomi again, and just as he had in the morning, his hand curls around Kiyoomi’s waist. Kiyoomi sighs, leaning into the touch, and watches as Atsumu’s pupils dilate that much more.

”You're the reason I can’t focus on that stupid movie,” he confesses, because he may as well, “You have all my attention. It’s kind of annoying.”

Atsumu is ridiculously pretty this close up, and for once, doesn’t have much to say. Kiyoomi tilts his head forward, looks up at Atsumu purposefully, and shuts his eyes. He better understand that. To his relief and joy, he does. 

Kiyoomi is nervous Atsumu is going to hear his pounding heart, or feel it, through his fingers on his waist, or taste it, on his tongue. He thinks it’s written all over his face, his body, his trembling touch, that he loves Atsumu an embarrassing amount.

He takes this very opportune moment to bring his hand up to touch the swell of Atsumu’s warm cheek, and almost falls off the couch when Atsumu leans into it.

This also consequently causes them to break away, Atsumu’s expression bunched up with happiness. “Is it too soon to ask you to be my boyfriend?”

“Give me a second,” Kiyoomi breathes, “I think I’m having some kind of attack.”

Atsumu breaks out into a full blown laugh, and Kiyoomi gets even closer, somehow, resting his forehead against Atsumu’s, “I’m serious.”

“No, no. I believe ya. I’m just happy.”

“You make me happy.” Kiyoomi is worried that if Atsumu doesn’t stop him, he’s never going to be the same. He’s doomed to a life of this.

“Was that a yes?”

Things could be worse. Kiyoomi nods, “Kiss me again.”

_“It’d take hours to explain,” I said._

_“I’d listen to you for hours,” he said._

  
**_-Alice Oseman_ ** _, Radio Silence_

**Author's Note:**

> hi again yuchi ! reminder that i love you SO very much and that you are.... one of my favorite people.... or whatever and i should tell you more often bc u deserve all the love in the universe
> 
> happy belated birthday. u are the embodiment of a legend (my definition standing as: a person with a good heart through and through) i love terrorizing you
> 
> ps. skts kissy kissy and you can’t stop them <3
> 
> title is from the song “in my room” by frank ocean btw!!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/mochilzuku)


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